Another Insurgency Crushed.

Several years ago I decided to declare war on the company where I work. It was not a full, conventional war, with lots of guns and bullets, missiles, bombs and other explosives. They have a lot more money and a major offensive with mortar barrages in the secretarial pool, and sniper fire in the executive parking lot would probably make them angry enough to stop paying me. A small guerilla action seemed ideal . More of an insurgency, a low level acrtion designed to make them uncomfortable. I really didn’t think it through very well, and didn’t have any clear goals. But, it seemed noble, and worthy and almost fun.

My first step, actually my only step, was to stop signing birthday cards. When they showed up on my work station, camouflaged in their little manila folders, with a list of employees stapled to the side I would just cross off my name and not sign the card. Passing it along to the next poor sap who spent precious minutes deciding what to write, face contorted with concentration, considering one possibility after another. You could see the wheels turning. None of that for me.

It was a rousing success, too. I calculated, on an Excel worksheet (using a complicated algorithm (whatever the hell that is) of my own design) just how much time I saved every year. It gave me the unique opportunity to plan my next move, which was coming together quite nicely, until the greeting card stormtrooper, who goes by the name of Shirley showed up at my desk.

Shirley is a pleasant older woman who is in charge of parties, celebrations, cakes, all things celebratory. She has pictures of her grandchildren scattered around her desk. Small, personal mementos take space in prominent locations on her pitch black file cabinet, a relic of the trip to Branson, a cactus swathed in red, white and blue, holding a US flag that someone had given her years ago. Small, scented candles that had never been lit surround her employee of the month plaque. She is the company record holder, winning 13 times. Her whole work area is a shrine to a valued employee, a loving, nurturing mother, and a nice person.

She had the bosses Holiday card in hand.

“You didn’t sign the card.” She said. Handing me the card, and a pen.

I took the card, and the pen, and signed my name.

The temperature dropped noticeably. I could see my breath.

I looked up from signing the card. Her face was inches from mine. Her eyes were bright, intense, painful to look at. I looked away as I handed her the card and the pen.

“I know what you’re up to, dumbass. I’m going to look at every card from now on, and make sure you sign it.” In a sweeping motion that was almost too fast to see her arm swung in a graceful arc and she buried the cheap, retractable ballpoint pen (a giveaway from a local bank) into the metal top of my desk. Tremors radiated from the impact, the hydraulic strut on my chair sank a few inches.

She smiled sweetly, turned and walked away. I looked at the pen and thought of King Arthur.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, over her shoulder.

“Merry Christmas,” I replied, pulling my jacket a little tighter, rubbing my hands together and reaching for my coffee. I began plotting my next move, it probably won't involve the company parties or cards.